Iris
by Ignis et Ventus
Summary: Some people write in their diaries to help with the pain of every day life, but Harry discovers, when he picks up a black leather bound journal from his rival's room and gets more than what he bargained for, that it helps him more to read.
1. Bad Beginnings Predict

Wow!! I've been waiting quite a while to post the first chapter of my first multi-chaptered fic. As I write this A/N, I still have no idea for a title, but I guess all I can do is hope that one comes to me before I finish typing it up. Anyways, I'll stop rambling now and get to the fic (I'm not making very much sense anyways).

As always, you are more that welcome to leave a review telling me what you think of it.

Chapter One: Bad Beginnings Predict…

The blood red slits that were glaring in his direction seemed to strip the shaking boy of all his defences. The high pitched hiss that read out his death sentence as if from an invisible book made him want to tear his ears off, remove his hearing all together.

-"You have failed me, my serpent. I know you were young when you last witnessed it, but do you remember what happens to the misfortunate few who dare disappoint me?" There was nothing angry in the question, but it was the calm controlled superiority that scared the boy the most.

Steel eyes that seemed to glint green when the light struck them at a certain angle widened in hysteria. A shiver shook his already trembling spine. The same smell that made the air thick with fear and sick anticipation could be sensed throughout the circle of robed figures blocking the two in the center from the outside world and any hope or help it could possibly offer. The fallen one's throat constricted on reflex, no sound escaped, or ever would escape him again.

Every pair of eyes present rose, some with sympathy and some with hunger, to follow their master's wand, and the sympathetic flinched in unison as the deadly words spilled forth from his thin lips.

-"Avada Kedavra, Draco."

A woman's sob rang in his ears as Harry Potter shot up in his small bed, in number 4 Privet Drive. His heart was pounding irregularly in his chest, making his entire ribcage throb. He raised a trembling hand to wipe away the beads of sweat that decorated his forehead and plastered his jet black hair to the base of his neck. His emerald eyes darted around his room, not pausing on anything, nor taking anything in. His scar prickled lightly, a reminder of the horror he had just witnessed, like a bad aftertaste at the back of his throat.

Three digital figures glared at him from a little black box that lay on his bedside table. 4:28.

The red of the numbers took him back to the equally pitiless red eyes in the darkness of his dream. A shudder ran freely through his disoriented body. His head hit the pillow before Harry realized that he had let himself fall. The world was swaying around him as flashes of the vision forced themselves to the forefront of his mind. He had witnessed the scene through the condemned boy's eyes, something that had never happened to him before-perhaps Voldemort had been inside the boy's head too.

He inhaled deeply, holding in the cool night air that flowed in through his open window.

Just as he began to find comfort in the warm sheets of his bed, the breath that was still being held hostage by the dark haired boy's lungs fought to escape. The imprint of Draco's dread, his utter panic, seized him, creating tendrils of paralyzing fear that wrapped themselves around Harry's already oxygen deprived brain. Harry remained prone, the horror in his eyes becoming dull.

A flash of neon green light filled Harry's vision, his eyelids slowly slipping shut.

The first thing to make itself known to his drowsy senses was the incessant tapping that resonated from his desktop. The second was the bright light that made his still sleep ridden eyes sting. The final thing to cross his mind before he fully appreciated the situation was that 4:28 had long ago passed and it was now 9:30.

Harry reached to his bedside table for his glasses, which he then proceeded to push up the bridge of his nose. As he sat up, he was met by a pair of big yellow eyes and an uncomfortable weight in his lap. The owl that had previously been tapping its beak against Harry's desk had flown to him and extended its right leg. A letter had been hurriedly attached to it, and it was, quite obviously, addressed to him.

As soon as the letter was detached, the owl hopped a polite distance away before taking flight through the still open window. He looked down to his letter only to be greeted with the Hogwarts emblem. They had never sent his supply list this early on in the summer before, and his supply list was never this light.

Now gripped by curiosity, the black haired boy tore open the envelope and slid out the piece of parchment within. The writing was spidery and Harry could tell that whoever had written it had been in a hurry. He read,

'Harry,

I know this letter may come as a surprise, but I have no time for pleasantries or common conversation. At precisely ten o'clock this letter will turn into a portkey and it will take you to Malfoy Manor. This is no hoax and you would do well to follow my instructions. At ten o'clock I want you to be holding this letter, dressed in your school uniform. I will explain everything upon your arrival.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Harry blinked twice before his mind wrapped itself around the situation and he launched himself out of his bed. He dashed down the stairs, flew passed his startled aunt and almost knocked right into the locked door of the cupboard, but managed to stop in time. Many thoughts ran through his head before he settled on wrenching open the door, breaking the lock in the process. He set his trunk right side up on floor and through it open. A mesh of clothes, thankfully all clean, Quidditch gear, school books and mostly broken quills took up all the room his trunk had to offer. He pulled out the robes he had worn the previous year and climbed the stairs back up to his room.

Harry tried in vain to comb his hair, sparing a single glance to check the time. 9:50.

He ran to the bathroom and picked up his toothbrush, slamming the door shut with his foot as he spread the paste.

9:58.

A now clean, dressed and out of breath Harry ran back down the stairs, this time skidding to a halt right in front of his adoptive family, a piece of parchment in his hand. They had all agglomerated at the bottom of the staircase, and were glaring at him keenly. While Petunia and Dudley scanned him up and down, Vernon spoke up.

-"Uh…it would seem that this unfortunate day is the…your birthday, and-" But if he ever finished his sentence Harry did not know. As he felt a tug from behind his navel, a hundred thoughts zoomed around in his head. For the first time in his life, his aunt and uncle had remembered his birthday, and he had left, cutting then off in mid-sentence. Hedwig's cage really needed to be cleaned. He hadn't rinsed his mouth properly and the leftovers of the toothpaste were crisp and crunchy between his teeth. Seeing 'Minerva McGonagall, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry' made his heart clench painfully. The last thought that was formed in his confused mind before his feet slammed back down on firm ground was that anyone could have sent him that letter, anyone could have sent him that portkey. And whoever that was, was not necessarily his friend.

The scene that was splayed out before his newly opened eyes was not the one he had been expecting. He was in what seemed to be a field, a very foggy field, and he was alone.

A crack resonated right next to his ear, and before Harry had time to assess the situation, a cold clammy hand latched onto his, and with another crack, the pair disappeared.


	2. Stealing From The Dead?

Sniff Sniff, only one review...but thank you very much Moonglaze, your review was inspiration enough for me to post the second chapter without feeling extraordinarily pathetic. Anyways, I don't own Harry Potter, though I don't believe I mentioned that in the first chapter. Oh well, I'll add it some time...

I hope chapter two is readable and please tell me what you think when you're done reading.

Chapter 2: Stealing from the Dead?

The moment that the world came back into focus Harry saw another pair of hands reaching out towards him. Tired of being tossed and pulled around like a rag-doll, he took a few steps back and took in his new surroundings.

He now stood in a well-furnished entrance hall. A large crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling and the quarter rounds as well as the doorframes were caked in a thin layer of gold. The ivory walls screamed of richness and the marble staircase that Harry could see in the adjoining room spoke purely of first class taste.

The feeling of a cold hand leaving his reminded Harry of its previous placement. He caught only a quick glimpse of the house-elf before it disappeared with a resonating crack. A familiar Scottish voice snapped him back into focus, as it had done many times before.

-'Thank you for making an appearance Mr. Potter. Now if you would kindly cease gapping at everything, we might be able to clarify things for you.' Minerva McGonagall looked tired, and if he were to judge only by her tone of voice, Harry would have said that she was exhausted. Not far behind her stood an equally worn looking woman. Dark circles marred the soft skin under her once dazzling grey eyes. Wrinkles had begun to pull her seemingly youthful face into a constant, inevitable frown and her previously vivacious hair had turned dull. Narcissa Malfoy.

As Harry walked, stunned, towards the duo, he noticed the red lines that were present, but only vaguely, in the aristocratic woman's orbs, as if she had been crying many hours before. He looked speechlessly at his Transfiguration Professor, silently asking for answers to the questions he had yet to formulate. The old woman nodded and led Harry into the room he assumed they had previously been seated in.

As he settled into a rather comfortable armchair, accepting the cup of jasmine tea his silent hostess was offering him, the new headmistress began to tell her tale.

-'First I must thank you for not jumping to any conclusions concerning this matter; I am quite relieved that you did not arrive wand raised, demanding justice.' Suddenly, the original position of the two women made sense to the young Gryffindor. It was only natural that Narcissa had stood very many steps away from him. 'Second I must ask you a favour. While I will be filling you in, I would very much appreciate it if you would not interrupt me.' After he had given her a quick nod and a murmured 'alright', she continued. 'You undoubtedly remember the events at the ministry last year.' She paused again, trying to gage his reaction. It was clear that she knew just how thin the ice she was treading on was. 'Lucius Malfoy'- Narcissa let out a squeak, then apologized-'was sent to Azkaban, where he passed away a few months later. It's not very clear how he died, but we expect Ministry involvement, which would explain the lack of media coverage. After her husband's death, Mrs.Malfoy came to Albu- came to the Order asking for help. We gave her a dose of Veritaserum from Auror Moody's stock, and learned that she had been contemplating betrayal for some time already-a contemplation that was whole-heartedly shared by her son. But with the good news of yet another soul finding its way into the light came the abomination that was the news of the Unbreakable Vow that-' she swallowed roughly-'that Severus Snape had taken with Narcissa, with Bellatrix Black as their bonder.

-'Naturally, the Headmaster had already known of the Bond via Severus, but it being out in the open made overcoming it all the more impossible. Indeed, there was little more than we could do but wait for that night only last month. We hadn't heard from either Narcissa or Draco since until this morning when. As it turns out-' Harry cut her off.

-'Voldemort killed Draco last night. I know, I saw it in a vision.' His hands gripped his cup tightly to stop them from shaking. 'But what does that have to do with me?' He asked without particular interest, as if he had spoken the line too many times before, and was doing so now solely out of common courtesy. The shock disappeared from McGonagall's eyes, only to be immediately replaced by something akin to grief.

-'It would seem that you are the best candidate to lead the Order, Harry. It was in Albus' will.' She blurted out the last sentence, as if abiding by the childish notion that something spoken quickly causes less harm. 'I know it's a lot to ask, he didn't intend on leaving everything to you so soon.' A short pause. 'And I'm sorry, but your job starts now. You are to decide of Narcissa Malfoy's fate.'

Harry swallowed a few times, mulling over all of his new information. How easy it would be to just send the woman to Azkaban and be done with her. Make her pay not only for her own sins, but also for the sins of the people she had chosen to follow blindly. Make her suffer- had he not suffered enough? Make her the one responsible for his Godfather's death, for Cedric, for _everything_. But Harry knew better, and cursed himself for it. She had made a foolish choice, every one does; hers had simply been more life altering than anyone else's. How could he make her pay for that? For the first time of their encounter, Harry looked his blond hostess in the eye and said,

-'I don't believe that you would ever have heard the Muggle saying, 'the enemy of me enemy is my friend'?' She shook her head, but understanding and gratitude shone in her eyes, giving them a spark of life that reminded Harry painfully of the twinkle that used to grace the bright blue eyes of his Headmaster.

Harry turned his head back to his Professor. 'She'll live at Order Headquarters, helping out in any way she can. But if anyone harms her under the pretence that she is a Death Eater, they will be sent, if not to Azkaban, then simply out. Out of Headquarters, out of the Order. We can't use people like that.' The stern witch nodded her approval and agreement, the grief not leaving her gaze. Once again, the young teenager was swallowing his fear, putting his own problems aside for the sake of others. A true Gryffindor through and through. Even though she tried to mask it, Harry could see the pride and respect shining in her tired eyes, washing away the grief.

Seeing as no one had taken the initiative to fill in the silence that had settled over the trio, Harry assumed that the conversation was over, but for a reason beyond his understanding, he felt the need to stay within the house.

-'Perhaps it would be wise if you simply went back to Order Headquarters now with Professor McGonagall, Mrs.Malfoy'' He looked at the woman in question. 'You should gather your belongings.' She nodded absentmindedly through the steady stream of crystalline tears running down her pale face. 'And if you don't mind, while I am here, I should like to see Draco's room.'

The request had flown right past his lips before I even had time to process it. His shocked eyes rose to meet her equally wide ones, and he was surprised at the answer she managed to choke out.

-'Yes, of course. I'll show you.'

The young man followed her up the grand marble staircase he had spotted upon his arrival. When he turned to speak to his Head of House, he was startled to see that she had not joined them. A small, polite cough reminded him of his current preoccupation and he jogged up the remaining steps to join Narcissa.

As she led him to her late son's room, Harry tried to make not of how to get back to the main sitting room, but quickly gave up. He briefly wondered whether or not even the dazed woman new her way around the seemingly endless maze of corridors.

The idea was dismissed however, when she stopped in front of a plain, closed door. She raised a fist to it and, for a moment, Harry thought she was going to knock. But at the last second before her clenched fingers made contact with the wood, she opened her fist and smacked it with the palm of her hand, keeping it placed firmly on the old oak.

Harry could see a shimmer going from her hand to the edges of the door. The glittery pattern repeated itself a few times; creating an effect that reminded him of the way water ripples when its surface is troubled.

A click resonated in the empty quiet of the long corridor, and the door swung open. No light shone through the dark shadows in the hallway, giving Harry, who couldn't see inside the room, the impression that it possessed no windows.

He witnessed the imperceptible shaking of the woman's slim shoulders as she was overcome by the memories that the smell of her son brought back. She clapped a hand over her mouth and ran unceremoniously back down the corridor, stopping only to let the stunned boy know that she would come collect him when she was ready to leave her home for good. Harry entered the late boy's room without second thought, letting the slab of oak swing shut behind him.

A feeling of deep intimacy washed over him, but he pushed it aside, concentrating on the tugging he was feeling somewhere in his upper chest. It was what had guided him so far, and he had little other choice but to follow it until the teary blonde returned to fetch him.

In the centre of the spacious circular room stood a large four-poster bed, reminiscent of the one Harry slept in at Hogwarts. But a thin, white sheet, like hangings that had been pulled shut forever, covered this one. The furniture was placed along the walls, which were adorned only by the thick deep purple velvet curtains that had been pulled shut to cover the windows and were therefore blocking out any and all beams of light requesting entrance.

Harry marched foreword to the nearest pair and tugged them open. The intruding sunlight put the vanilla coloured walls on display and allowed the Gryffindor better access to the awkwardly placed furniture.

He walked first to the dresser and in one fluid movement rolled open the first drawer. He was greeted by multiple pairs of socks, boxers, and pressed white nightshirts. The second drawer-neatly folded shirts and pants. The third drawer-winter cloaks and mittens. He passed by the closet without looking in, firm in the knowledge that he would find what he wanted there. Next came the bookshelf. He slid out a few books. Nothing. They were all old school books. And finally, the desk. It stood by itself on the opposite wall from the other pieces, and the mahogany seemed to call to Harry with all its might. Why had he not sensed this before?

He crossed the room in two seconds flat, and pulled open the drawer on its left side. Only one item was to be found. A small leather bound black book had been placed there. The low, dry clicks of Narcissa Malfoy's shoes hitting the hardwood floors filled Draco's room. Harry felt more than heard her press her palm to the door, and as it swung open, he shoved the book into his robes and closed the drawer.

-'I'm ready to leave.' Her voice was heavy with still more unshed tears. Harry followed her to the sitting room where the Professor was still waiting. She got up to join them, and together they made their silent way to the main doors. McGonagall turned to her pupil.

-'As you will be in charge of the Order soon enough, it would be wise for you to move your belongings permanently into Headquarters. We will Apparate with Mrs. Malfoy to Headquarters first, and then we will go to your Aunt's and Uncle's house to collect your trunk and so you can say your farewells.' She led him out the front door and down the steps. 'And by the way Harry, Happy Birthday.'

'Thank you, Professor.' He answered without smiling. They both knew that she had bid him a happy birthday purely on ceremony, and it was not the time for any form of celebrations.

The door shut itself behind them, and no one noticed the edge of a little book sticking out of Harry's robe's pocket.


	3. Of Staring Contests and Discovering

Hmm…two chapters and two reviews, I feel pathetic. Oh well, chapter three is my favourite so far, and so I hope that you guys like it as well. Please leave me a review, it motivates me, even if it's a flame, I don't care, but at least it'll show me whether or not people are actually reading this.

So, without further ado, I give you chapter three.

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Chapter Three: Of Staring Contests and Discovering the Past

In his short life that far, Harry had had many staring contests with various people, some with owls and even one with a certain half-kneazle that can often be found wandering the hallways of Hogwarts on cool summer eves, but had he felt more challenged than in that instant when, instead of a pair of bright eyes, he fought with the bindings of a small book.

The thin black leather bound cover stared him down with its cold unwavering gaze, much as he imagined that its previous owner would have. He shivered slightly and reached out a long fingered hand towards the book.

-"Harry!" Remus Lupin, one of many current residents of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place (Voldemort had taken to destroying the homes of anyone he found was affiliated with Dumbledore and his Order) threw open the door to the younger one's bedroom, not bothering to knock. The light flooding into the dark room from behind the lycanthrope stung Harry's eyes and he blinked repeatedly, waiting for his pupils to let his irises take over.

-"Remus, what can I do for you?" His voice sounded detached and somewhat shaky, even to his own ears. Like he was trying to sound like someone he was not. Trying to sound like he had nothing else in the world on his mind, like Remus was his only preoccupation, like he actually had the strength left in his body to do whatever his old friend asked of him. He wanted to sound as if he needed something to do, and Remus was liberating him from his boredom, as he was simply jumping at the occasion to add something to his near empty 'to do' list. He was trying to sound like Dumbledore. And he was failing miserably, and he knew it.

-"Oh, Harry, I'm fine, I don't need a thing, I just heard that you had arrived, and well…" He trailed off uneasily. He hadn't said the words aloud, they were not needed as his eyes were screaming what his lip would, or could, not.

I don't need you to be _him_.

Harry cocked his head to the left and looked at his mentor curiously. The deep purple half-circles that usually marred the underside of his amber eyes had become black and stretched down to the top of his high and prominent cheek bones. His pale skin now looked more like sour milk than anything else, and although his shoulders were usually hunched over, they now seemed to be holding up not only the weight of the world, but also of Atlas who was obviously failing his task.

The sight of the normally cheerful man brought down to such a level awoke Harry's conscience, and he felt the thick, vine-like tendrils of shame and guilt wrap themselves around his quickly beating heart. How blind he had been not to see, not to _think_ that everyone around him had equally been rendered distraught at, had suffered from, the loss of their mentor and leader. But it was worse for Remus, for McGonagall, for Moody. He had once upon a time been their mentor. He had always been their leader. And he had also been their friend. They had lost so much more than him, and yet they had not begun locking themselves up in the dark. They had not lost hope, they realized that they could not afford to. They were adults, and he was a child. They had, in fact, doubled their efforts at making the end of the war a victory for the light. They had, it would seem, separated the late man's strength between them. But no, there came in the child's perspective again. They had not separated his strength, they had divided his responsibilities. No one would ever be able to do as much as that man, but they tried anyways. That was how the younger had always remembered his almost father figure; strong enough in mind and will to surpass the weakness that his body plagued him with.

The man's voice brought Harry out of his musings. "If there's ever anything you need, do not hesitate to let me know. This offer is unconditional, though there are certain times of the month during which I am sure you will prefer not to be asking me for help, one of those nights being tomorrow, so Professor McGonagall asked m to tell you on her behalf that one fire-call to the school is all it takes to contact her." He then handed the boy a medium sized purple velvet pouch, patted him on the back and left. He did not close the door behind him. Harry noticed the meaning behind the gesture with a smile.

With a flick of a switch, flames erupted from the chandelier hanging from the ceiling (Arthur had installed the switches in every room of the house. He said it was to "facilitate the illumination of such a dark and dreary place." Every one knew that it was for the satisfaction and irony of installing something muggle in a house where an old hag in a painting screamed at all hours of the day about blood traitors and mudbloods.)

He sat back down at his desk and frowned once more. Then, as if he had grown tired of his thoughts, he reached out for the book once more, again stopping mere millimetres from the cover. "Why am I doing this?"

The fact that he had spoken aloud seemed to have escaped him, and he continued doing so shamelessly. "I stole a dead boy's notebook because of a feeling. Why did I _do_ that?" He sighed. "Because I want to know the real him. Every one wears a mask, and I want to take his off. I want to die having known someone the same way I know myself."

It was only then that he clasped his fingers around the cover and opened the book to its first page. A skilled hand had elegantly written, _This diary belongs to Draco Malfoy_.

The unforgiving exterior of the diary had given way to soft yellowed pages, much as Harry was beginning to suspect that the harsh exterior of its owner would have given way to a soft, mellow young man. A sudden feeling of intimacy took over Harry and he hurried to close his bedroom door, leaving a sliver open. He walked with a determined pace to his desk, picked up the open journal and proceeded to settle himself comfortably on a corner of his large bed.

As he prepared to turn the page, a small piece of parchment fell out from between the two pages that followed. It read, _Draco, my son, I have not been able to give you much comfort, nor have I fulfilled my duties as your mother, and I know that you carry a lot of grief, anger, and resentment with you. My mother gave me this journal when I was your age, but I have never been much of a writer, and so I am now passing it onto you. Your father does not know about this, I do not doubt that he would disapprove if he did know, and so I advise that you leave it at school in a place that you know to be safe during your vacation time. I am giving it to you in the hope that you will be able to let some of your anger go and maybe find some joy in the life that you lead. _

It was written in the same script as the introductory line of the journal. Harry placed it beside him on the bed cover, turned the page, and the first entry began.

"_September 1__st__ 1991_

_ I do not know who to address this book to, so let me simply say hello, and whoever apart from me finds themselves reading this can add their names in their heads. I will not waste what precious few pages of freedom I have introducing myself and the like, I doubt that you care regardless. I just arrived at Hogwarts earlier today. It is almost exactly as I had imagined it to be: a safe haven away from the man who forces me to call him 'father' and his bloody expectations._

_ I met a boy at Madam Malkin's Robes for all Occasions when I was in Diagon Alley. He seemed really very nice and had he ended up in Slytherin, indeed had he ended up anywhere and not been Harry Potter, I would have liked to befriend him and show him my true face. But alas, he shall only know me as a coward and a jerk and will most certainly condemn me as one. Gryffindors are like that. You know, in the two seconds that the Sorting Hat spent on my head, it actually offered for me to go in Gryffindor, but I refused point blank. Lucius would have killed me and I couldn't leave Mother alone with him. _

_ Well, with the good news of finally starting Hogwarts comes the bad news of my entourage: Crabbe and Goyle. I've been calling them that for so long that I can barely even remember what their first names are, and I think I'm going to forget them soon. It's like having two gorillas following you around everywhere. They're stupid, they're fat, but they couldn't actually defend me from a fruit fly. They haven't the brains between them to best a troll._

_ I suppose that it's times like this when I miss my mother the most, and I wish Missile were here to curl up around my bare feet to keep then warm. But Lucius doesn't allow Mother to leave the mansion anymore for fear that she will tell someone or go to Hogwarts, take me and run away. And no one really wants a dead cat to curl up at their feet anyway. _

_ When I was nine, Mother got me a white kitten with beautiful yellow eyes. I loved that cat so much. His name was Missile. When I turned ten, Lucius broke Missile's neck in front of me. He said that it was time for me to grow up and grown ups didn't play with kittens. I cried, and I paid dearly for my tears, grown ups don't cry either, and Missile was never mentioned again. _

_ Mother held me that night, for the first time in years, or what felt like years. It was only for five seconds (five seconds was all we could afford, or Lucius would have noticed), but with that embrace she gave me more comfort than any words could have. I'm lucky to have her, and I miss her very much. Then again, I miss her even when I am with her, so that's not saying much._

_ Well, I must say, it is one o'clock in the morning and I have to pretend to be a sleazy jerk tomorrow, and I need to be well rested for that, so good night._

_ Draco_."

Harry closed the book, his breathing oddly calm, one sentence in particular playing over in his head, _Lucius would have killed me and I couldn't leave Mother alone with him. _

What kind of a life had this boy had?

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Well????? Didja like it? Hate it? Want to eat it? Tell me, tell me, tell me!!! 


	4. Animagus Dolphins and Spon

Hello there! I'd like to thank my reviewers, you are all very inspiring, and get me off my lazy bum. I'd also like to specify that Draco is indeed dead, he's not coming back to life, no matter how tempting it may be to make it a happy ending with flowers and sunshine and unicorns. That's just how it is, otherwise the story wouldn't work.

Someone requested a long chapter, and I'm trying to make it as long as I can, and I can only hope that my chapters get longer as the story progresses.

Well, for now, I leave you, and I hope you enjoy chapter four.

Chapter Four: Animagus Dolphins and Spontaneous Hybernation

A few days had passed since Harry had opened the late boy's journal, but the initial shock at what he had found was still fresh in his mind. At least it was whenever he wasn't preoccupied with learning all of the possible attack plans that Moody ran through him every day or when McGonagall wasn't hunting him down to add yet another skill to his already impossible list of things to master. So far she had put on duelling, hand-to-hand combat, advanced charms and transfiguration, evasive flying manoeuvres (he strongly suspected that she had only put that in there to appease him, but who was he to complain?), and beginner's wandless magic.

And it didn't stop there. Some days, Harry had so many various witches and wizards asking him questions he could barely understand about things he didn't even know that he thought he'd really rather simply march right into Voldemort's lair and take his chances that way. This being one of those days, he timed his escape just as a Russian witch with a funny accent finished questioning him about an aerial defence squad. He was making his way into the more remote areas of the house when a Belgian wizard came rushing out of nowhere, very obviously ready to pick up his 'aquatic mission' rant where he had left off the day before. Harry only just made it up the stairs before he could be bombarded with 'plans sure not to fail' once more.

He was more than glad to be of service in the fight against the Dark Lord, but he had never really expected his life to begin revolving around it, and could not help but wonder if he would survive the war with his sanity intact. It felt like, as soon as he had entered the Headquarters of the Order, he had begun to breath plans against Voldemort, to eat missions to capture Death Eaters, to dream of it at night, to _become_ nothing more than a ambulant muggle memory card of all the tactics they were to attempt in order to bring an end to the deluded Lord.

He made a mad dash for his bedroom while he still could, and once inside, he slammed the door shut behind him, putting a physical barrier between himself and his oppressive followers.

How did Dumbledore expect him to lead people who knew more than him? Why did he not make someone qualified head of the prestigious Order? He had given it a fair bit of thought during the past few days and had come to the conclusion that Dumbledore must have known best. He always had.

Alastor Mad-Eye Moody was an obvious bad choice; his one and only obsession had become hunting down and killing Severus Snape, who had disappeared without a trace since Dumbledore's departure from the world. When he wasn't busy with his usual planning and scheming, he could often be found wandering the mansion's many hallways, muttering things under his breath. The inhabitants of the house quickly became used to hearing things reverberating in the dusty corridors, things such as "traitorous bastard…knew it from the very start, but did he listen? Noooo…gonna find the bloody bastard…should hand by his greasy neck 'til dead"

Minerva McGonagall was also a bad choice. Harry had been particularly puzzled as to why his mentor hadn't put the Transfiguration Mistress in charge, but only a few days of having to lead the Order had made it clear as crystal. No one save the late man himself would ever be able to balance the responsibilities of the Order _and_ of a school. She had her place, and was far more needed at the ancient school than in the hectic, grimy building in which resided the remains of the old man's life.

Remus Lupin, as a werewolf, would miss too many meetings, be absent too often.

Arthur Weasley had his family to take care of- a family that would, and should, always come first.

Nymphadora Tonks was too disorganized, too clumsy, too forgetful, and way too prone to disaster.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was constantly on the move for the Ministry now that they openly believed in Voldemort's return.

The list did go on, but in the end, Harry had decided that, for whichever reason Dumbledore had put him in charge, he had to deal with it, and knowing why wasn't going to change that fact. And it most certainly wouldn't help him with Belgian wizards and their aquatic missions.

If one thought did console him, however, it was that he did not seem to be leading the Order alone. Apart from the help that McGonagall and Moody were offering continually, he had never more needed, appreciated, or heeded his best friends' advice more.

Whenever someone had a strategy to discuss, Ron was always there to give Harry a hand, and whenever someone came up with yet another way to defeat Voldemort, Hermione was always there to point out the obvious flaws in the plan and send them back to the drawing board. As it was, he figured that as bad as it was even with all of the added help, at least he would only have to deal with it day-in and day-out for another month until he returned to Hogwarts for his final year. In any case, receiving flocks of owls with his porridge in the morning seemed almost comical compared to what his life had become at present.

He surveyed the room he was currently occupying not looking for anything in particular. It was mid-afternoon and Harry had already finished his training for the day. He knew that he was responsible for all of the people working their ways around the house and that it was his job to deal with their problems and listen to their plans, but he felt so incompetent compared to them. Their entire lives for the moment were concentrated on finding and destroying Voldemort, on ensuring a victory for the light. He was just a teenager with average grades; he was just a normal kid with a magical cut on his forehead. He might be the one that was destined to kill the Dark Lord, but he was still nothing more than a seventeen year old with no clue as to what to do with his life, if he was to have one once the war was over.

Heaving a sigh at his own expense, he flopped down on his plush bed and winced as his elbow hit the sharp corner of something concealed by his duvet. Pulling it back irritably, his gaze fell to the cover of a black booklet. His annoyance evaporated at once as he remembered what it was doing there.

The night before had been his first chance to open the book since the morning when he had acquired it, but having just finished a particularly frustrating day of training, he had barely read the date of the entry when sleep had overcome him.

Glad to have something to do that required little of anything on his part, he pulled back the cover and turned the pages to the second entry. Forgetting all about his life, about his friends, about Voldemort, about the Horcruxes that only he, Ron and Hermione knew about, he read.

"_September 6__th__ 1991, _

_The first week of school is over, and although prior to my coming here, I expected to look forward to the weekends during which I could lounge about the common room, or go outside and sit by the lake, or sit in one of those really comfy chairs by the window in the library, I find myself disillusioned and wishing that I could forego the next two days in favour of continuing with a steady flow of classes until school is to be let out. Unfortunately, that is not the case, and I do not have a choice but to spend the next two days entertaining the two boulders that follow me around with as much gusto as I can muster. I thought that weekends were supposed to be the highlight of one's week in school, but for me all they're going to be are opportunities to practise my acting. This lifetime's theme: pretend to hate muggleborns, tell everyone that Harry Potter is scum, and do my best to point out the Weasleys' poverty to the general public. _

_Now, that wouldn't be too hard if the first muggleborn I've ever met is an intelligent, albeit bossy girl that I think I could've liked under different circumstances. Or if Harry Potter wasn't a boy I could very well see myself confiding in, or if Ronald Weasley wasn't in my year, Harry Potter's best friend, and seemingly really nice."_

A familiar guilt, though it was not nearly as intense as it had been when Cedric had been murdered, or when Sirius had fallen through the veil, threatened to fill his chest, but before he could dwell on the bubbling despair, a knock on his door told him that he had company not a second before it burst open.

Hermione skipped into the room with exuberance only she could contain while surrounded by the grim-faced Order members. Ron filed in behind her and shut the door. He smiled at them, quickly shut the book and slipped beneath his pillow. They would not ask, and in return, he would tell them when he was ready. It had been Hermione who had, one day in the recent past come to the conclusion that they all needed more and more privacy as they grew older- especially Harry- and so they should refrain from asking each other questions of the personal nature under the pretence that they were best friends and would tell each other in time regardless. So far she-and she alone- had broken the unwritten agreement twelve times. She had therefore come to the conclusion, rather haughtily, that asking wasn't a problem and there was no shame in it, but they should still be mindful of others' personal space and it was their choice to answer or not anyway.

Harry was about to ask what they had been up to when Hermione, anticipating the question in a very Dumbledore-like way, launched into a tirade of her and Ron's day.

"You wouldn't believe how much cleaning we've had to do! I mean, we can use magic now, but still. We're part of the Order now, I would've thought that some sort of a promotion was in order- no pun intended. And Molly! She _still_ doesn't want Ron and I to attend meetings, but we're _members_!! I had a huge argument about it with her at lunch; an argument that _someone-_" she glared at Ron, making it very clear just who that someone was -"didn't participate in. She's been babying me more and more ever since we started going out, and it's really got to stop!" She was talking solely to Ron now. "I'm tired of her trying to stop me from doing anything. I mean, I'm flattered and all that she's trying to protect me and keep me safe, but I'm an _adult_ now, and so are you! When is she going to realise that we're not children anymore? When-"

Ron's ears were bright red, but he still placed his index over her lips to stop her in her rant. "You know she never will, that's just how she is. And it's worse now after what happened to Bill, but she'll let go soon enough. Hm?" She sighed and nodded against his hand. "Besides, soon enough she'll be in the midst of all the wedding preparations- Phlegm is _still_ screaming about the delay, by the way, Harry- and she'll let you breath a bit more then. For now you just have to humour her a little."

She nodded once more, his hand now resting on her cheek, before turning to Harry once more. "So how was your day, oh-marvellous-saviour-of-us-all?"

He gave her a withering glare. "Oh, not too bad, you know, I got to practise my evasive manoeuvres on foot thanks to Natalia Pavlova-" he looked at Ron- "you know, the one who thinks that we should try to get our hands on as many phoenixes as possible and make a defensive shield out of them as they fly above us- actually I never _did_ get how she wanted that to work or what the point of them was, but never mind- and that Belgian bloke who wants to make and army of dolphins in which he can incorporate two or three animaguses to lead the pack. Apart from that I did some pretty cool transfiguration; I now know how to transfigure a rock into a skeleton key that can by-pass almost any charm, curse, hex, jinx, or magical barrier placed on the object I'm unlocking. I was supposed to have mastered it wandlessly as well, but I only just managed to do it with my wand _and_ the words spoken out loud, so I've got homework."

Ron opened his mouth, most likely to start a completely new conversation, but Hermione, who knew how to take a hint, grabbed his upper arm and began pulling him in the direction of the door. Harry couldn't help but smile at them. "Bye guys, thanks for dropping by."

He could just make out Ron's reply muffled by the door, and listened to them arguing all the way down the hall. He slid the diary back out from under the pillow, paused as to recollect himself or recall where he had left off, and continued reading.

"…_or if Ronald Weasley wasn't in my year, Harry Potter's best friend, and seemingly really nice. I swear, the Gods laugh and spit in my face. Then they laugh some more and cook up more schemes to make me suffer until I eventually die an inevitable death of shame, humiliation and extreme aggravation. _

_Well, what will happen will happen in due course, though not for lack of wanting it not to on my part. Then again I'm not too sure which is the lesser of two evils; a weekend of strutting around the castle as if I owned the place, or History of Magic with Professor Binns. That man, or that ex-man to be more exact, has got to be the most boring teacher on the face of this planet. Then again, I certainly wouldn't say 'no' to some extra Transfiguration. I think it must be my favourite subject. Professor McGonagall is strict, but you have to be to teach such a subject, and you have to have discipline to learn it. Not too sure I'd go for Charms though. It's interesting enough, but it's just not my subject. And Professor Flitwick just has this grandfatherly 'there, there dear boy, everything is going to be alright' mood about him. It makes me want to retch. Herbology is a living nightmare; the subject's almost as bad as the teacher! Professor Sprout. I swear if it wasn't for the need to sleep, eat and breathe, she'd be living buried in the Venomous Tantacula and her Mimbulus Mimbletonia. Then there's Astronomy. I suppose that that's not too bad, kind of cool when you think about it. _

_Ah! What am I doing? I only have around two hundred pages in here, and I refuse to waste them going over school like some home-sick, first-year, Hufflepuff. I mean, yeah, I'm a first year too, but I'm a Slytherin, we're different. VERY different. _

_Oh, bollocks! I think Vincent and Gregory have decided that they have eaten enough in case spontaneous hibernation becomes a trend, so I must leave you. I don't know when I'll be able to write next. I hope it's soon, because it really does help to write everything down, even if I do plan on erasing it all someday, or burning this thing. _

_Draco."_

Harry did not know what to think.

Please review! Pretty please, I really don't know what's going on with this story, so feedback would really be appreciated. Anyway, good day to all!


	5. Alright who died?

Well hello there! I must start by thanking my reviewers. Thank you for taking the time to leave me a little note, reviews, after all, are a writer's second best friend (right Ventus?). And I must also thank all the wonderful people who added this story, or me (or both!) to their story alerts and favourites. Though I must say, wouldn't it be even more wonderful if you could also write a really short, really quick review? Wouldn't you feel better?

…No? Oh, well, at least I tried!

Now that I am done begging pathetically for more reviews…I'll beg for more! GIMME GIMME GIMME!!!! Ok, now I really am done, so on with the chapter, it is, after all, what you are all here for, no?

Oh, and I changed my summary, you like or you no like?

Enjoy!

Chapter Five: "Alright…who died?"

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was an old building. It frequently groaned and complained about the weight placed on its weary shoulders (although everything inside of it fell under an Automatic Weightless Charm), resulting in a symphony of creaks and whines that were mostly heard in the silence of the night when no one was around to cover them up with sounds of hasty footsteps and urgently shouted messages.

Though the noises sounded infinitely louder in the emptiness, Harry had been living there for a week now, and had grown accustomed to the never-ending monologue of his house. He dreamt on, unaware of the world and of his problems in it.

A high-pitched voice belonging to a red-eyed man was calmly handing out a death sentence to one of his least faithful. "You have failed me, my serpent." A woman in the crowd whimpered and screamed. A flash of green light illuminated the blonde's pointed features for a moment, casting his face in patches of uneven shadow. He hit the floor like a man-sized doll of flesh, blood and bone. And yet his dead lips still whispered to him, "I liked you. Why didn't you see it? You could have helped me, Harry, you could have saved me."

The same blonde, a lot younger this time, sat before his father- an exact replica of himself, only older- and flinched away when he was told by the cruel man to pet the dead creature's fur. The cat, whose sorrowful eyes stared into his own, pleading to know, _why didn't you protect me?_ The boy's grey orbs were demanding to know the exact same of him. Why? WHY?

Back to the red slits for eyes, only this time the voice that came from the thin mouth was not high pitched. "Harry, Harry, Harry…" he droned on. The voice was so very familiar. "Harry!" the man was getting impatient. What did he want? "Why didn't you fall through the veil for me Harry? It was your fault I was there in the first place…it's always been your fault…you did not even come after me…you could have, and you know it. Did you not love me?" The eyes were no longer red. Before him stood his godfather. His lips began to move once more. "Why didn't _you_ fall off of the Astronomy Tower? You didn't think I deserved to live? You thought your life was worth more than mine? Is that it?" Albus Dumbledore, his eyes no longer twinkled.

"I told you to take the cup alone! Why didn't you listen? Did you want me dead? You wanted the cup for yourself, right? You wanted me dead so that you could have the glory, the money…Cho…" Cedric Diggory was glaring at him with unusually unkind eyes. It was all happening so fast, he couldn't even talk; say a word in his own defence. _How _could he have known that all of that was going to happen after they took the cup? He had tried so hard to reach his godfather after he had fallen through the veil, _so hard_. He was going to fall out of the other side any minute anyways, wasn't he? And he would have gladly thrown himself from the tallest tower in favour of keeping the old Headmaster alive. He tried to form the words to explain, but nothing came past his trembling lips.

All of the voices were screaming at him now, making an almost unintelligible jumble of accusation.

"_You_ should have died!"

"You deserve a fate **worse** than death itself!"

"It'll be the Dementor's Kiss for you, Potter."

Cold scaly hands were grabbing him. A frozen slimy mouth clamped down over his own in a parody of the usual show of affection. The Dementor's long, ginger hair mingled with his own short, black strands. Ginny's mocking smile was the last thing he saw before his world was enveloped in a grey haze. "HARRY!"

He shot up in bed as the pillow he had previously been resting on had spontaneously combusted. His mother's voice was still ringing in his ears, the only one without anger and blame lacing her words.

-"Harry…" _Oh God please say I'm not still dreaming._

A soft knock on his door later, Mrs Weasley stuck her head into the room. "Harry dear, is everything alright? You don't usually take so long getting up in the morning. Be careful or you'll turn into Ron!" He forced a chuckle up his tight throat. "Well, come on down to breakfast when you're dressed." And she left.

Instead of getting out of bed and forgetting the nightmare in favour of his training and previous responsibilities, he lay back down. It was surprisingly easy to recall the details of his dream, perhaps only because a large part of him didn't really want to remember it at all. The faces of those he missed lingered in his mind, their voices whispered nonsense in his ears. Now that he could defend himself, though only to an empty room, he couldn't work up the will to. It didn't matter what it was that they were saying, he was happy enough that he could still remember their voices.

When he walked into the dining room, the tension hit him like a pile of bricks.

"Alright…who died?" He joked, but Ron caught his eye and shook his head. _Merlin someone really has died._

Hermione had twin tear tracks running down her cheeks and her hazel eyes were rimmed with red. Arthur placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and led him to the nearest chair, pushing him to sit down. The silence became too much for him to take.

"What is going on?!" A pale hand extended something towards him and he snatched it. It was the Daily Prophet.

He unfolded it with shaking hands. In big, bold letters was written his undoing.

Remus J Lupin Found Dead 

_Very early this morning, the body of one Remus John Lupin was found by a group of aurors near Hogsmeade Village. It appears that he was attempting to make his way to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for reasons yet unknown. Sources say that the werewolf had been spotted with widely known Fenrir Greyback some months before and was going to attempt to break into the school and join him in his sport of feasting on human flesh, namely children's, even though it was not the night of the full moon. He taught at the school before, and therefore knew the building well enough to make his way to the defenceless students without getting caught. _

Harry had read enough. Remus…dead? It didn't make any sense. None. He was smart, the smartest of the marauders, he wasn't supposed to die…not now, not like that, not so soon. He wasn't supposed to become just another face…just another voice…just another _memory_…

"He was on a mission for the Order, he'd been on it for months, only coming back to headquarters to give updates, or when he heard you were coming. That's why he was spotted with Greyback. It the last mission Dumbledore gave him before…um…he was working underground, trying to convince people to join Dumbledore…"

But he wasn't listening. Remus was smart enough to avoid trouble; he couldn't have died on a mission, so there were two options. One was that they were lying to him, and the other was that they had gotten the wrong man, the wrong name, the wrong _something_, but _that _was NOT Remus John Lupin. Since the first wasn't particularly attractive, considering that it would mean that the people he had chosen to call family had deceived him, he chose the second.

-"They've got the wrong man, or something! They must have, because Remus can't be dead, don't you see? That's not him…right?"

Hermione hugged him briefly and disappeared from the room. Ron hesitated, then clapped a hand on his best friend's back and followed her. Arthur mumbled his condolences and left for the Ministry. Molly and Harry were left alone in the dusty kitchen.

He didn't want her to hug him, he didn't want a useless apology, he didn't need her to offer him food, or rest, or anything as a source of comfort. Because if she did, and if he accepted it, he would be accepting that his mentor, his friend, was really dead.

He started for the door, but something stopped him. "Wait…" Mrs Weasley had said it so softly that he had not been sure he had heard correctly. She looked at him with surprisingly dry, but sorrowful eyes.

"I know what you are feeling, Harry. I know you don't want comfort, I know you don't want to accept it, but you must. Every second you pass in denial will seem like some sort of reprieve from the truth, but it's not. Every minute you convince yourself that it's not true means that it will hurt that much more when you realize it is." She sighed, shook her head, and looked him in the eye. "I'm not sure that any of this makes sense, but I doubt it matters. Nothing makes sense right now, does it?"

"How do you know?" He choked, tears pouring from his eyes. "How do you know how I feel?"

A small, empathetic smile formed on her lips; the kind of smile one gives a friend going through a rough time one has already gone through. "I lost my brothers to the last war. They were killed by Death Eaters…same as my parents. I think you need some time alone now, Harry, but remember: keeping it locked up inside your mind and inside your heart will in no way help you. Talk to someone before the day of through. It doesn't have to be me, Arthur or even an Order member, it doesn't have to be Ron or Hermione, but _talk._" And she left him standing, not sure which emotion was winning the battle inside of him; anger, grief, disbelief, self-pity, empathy.

Anger won out. It was the easiest to follow, the easiest to let take control. He felt it nearly all the time regardless, so it was almost second nature to let his feet guide him while he let his thoughts swirl into rage. He wasn't angry with Remus, he wasn't angry with himself, he wasn't angry with Dumbledore for giving his the stupid mission in the first place. Or so he kept telling himself.

In truth he was angry with everyone and everything that popped into his head. He was angry with Ron and Hermione. He was angry with the Dursleys. He was angry with McGonagall. He was angry at the painting of Mrs Black that had kept strangely quiet these past few days. He was angry with his parents for leaving him. He was angry with his godfather. He was just plain livid. And he wanted an outlet.

He wanted to kick, punch, bite, scratch, curse, jinx, and scream until there was not left in him but utter exhaustion that would let him fall asleep and wake up in a completely different world. But when he drew back his fist to hit the closest thing to him, he froze.

He wasn't angry with the book that lay unknown to all but him, under the pillow he slept on at night. He wasn't angry with Draco, but he was angry with Ginny. Neither of them had had anything to do with the attack, but he was angry with the ginger haired girl and not the deceased boy. He didn't know why, but he wasn't angry with Draco, and that thought calmed him. Without thinking, he made his way to the journal, as if following a call he could not hear.

The covers felt strangely warm over his hand, though they were devoid of a body to give them heat. Perhaps it was his hand that had gotten cold. The pages of the journal felt softer than before, the words that had left an engrained pattern felt rougher under his fingertips. They felt like coming home after a long trip, like finding an anchor when you're lost in a sea of confusion and doubt. And he didn't know why. But it was not confusing, and he felt no doubt. He needed to hear Draco's voice.

"_September 13__th__ 1991,_

_A lot has happened to me since I last wrote in here, as can be guessed since it has been quite a while since I wrote at all (which in turn you can figure out by how much time has elapsed since this date and the last)._

_A few days into my second week here I got word from Lucius along with the sweets my mother sends me. I suppose she sends me them as a way to show me that she is still alive and well enough and with enough 'freedom' to call a house elf to buy them and send them to me. Not that that thought offers me much comfort, but it's better than having no word at all. Anyways, I'm losing track of my thoughts._

_It would seem that I now have official instructions to make Harry Potter__'s life a living Hell. I am to try and get him expelled by any means possible, and as soon as possible or else…_

_So far…not so good. I attempted to get him caught by Filch in the Trophy Room at midnight, but that royally backfired. Lucius wasn't pleased._

_And speaking of Lucius not being pleased, he was even less so when he found out that Harry had made the Quidditch Team and I did not. He's just being stupid though. It's more than obvious that Harry's got more talent on a broom in his little finger than the rest of the student body put together. Then again, as nice as it must be to have all of that attention, I can't help but feel that everyone is placing a lot of pressure on him. Maybe more than he can take. We'll see, I suppose. _

_Argh, when did this diary turn into Harry Potter's bloody biography?_

_The thing is that I find myself eagerly awaiting my next chance to sneak down to the Common Room in the dead of the night so that I can write pointless messages that no one will ever read in a notebook that has seen better days by faint and flickering candlelight and I don't know why. I don't know why I'm writing, I don't know what to write, but every word that I print on this paper lifts something from my chest that I did not know had previously been there. Never before in my life do I remember having felt this light. I think I might start to float…I think that Heaven must feel like this._

_What do people usually write in their diaries? Their feelings? Well, I don't care anyway, I'm not 'people' and I don't feel like writing down my feelings. I feel like writing about how much freedom I have had since my start of term here._

_I don't have Lucius breathing down my neck all the time. I can bury myself in my studies and escape to a place where expectations, misery, regret and fear do not exist. When I study even the living boulders leave me alone. I study a lot._

_Here at Hogwarts, I can eat however much I want at meals, though I usually don't eat much anyway. After a few bites I can't help but think of my mother and how she probably isn't eating, and if that doesn't completely kill my appetite, I stop eating out of solidarity. I may not be able to share the brunt of Lucius' anger, but I will not leave her alone. Even if she does not know of my efforts…it doesn't matter. I suppose that this is simply one of the things I will never be able to explain, and will not make sense no matter how I put it._

_And yet, for all of this wondrous freedom I have had, every silver lining has its rain cloud, and I know that my rain cloud will get a lot heavier before it empties itself in a shower of droplets upon the world. My problem is that although Lucius is, for a lack of a better way of saying this, blowing off steam on my mother in my absence, he does not forget a thing, not a single thing. This means that when I go home for Christmas Break, which I am sure he will demand that I do, he will not have forgotten my every mistake and will proceed to remind me of them. Everything has its price, I'm just not sure that I can afford this._

_I heard somewhere once, I don't remember where, that one should never end anything on a negative note, so before I say goodnight and retire to bed, I will add that…that…well, I can't quite think of anything else to say, so Harry Potter has very beautiful eyes._

_Please don't let anyone other than me ever read this!_

_Draco"_

Harry shut the book with a sigh and let it fall along with his arms, onto his chest. Slowly but surely, he fell into a fitful slumber full of dead men and blonde boys running from heavy rain clouds.


End file.
